So thin a wire, so deep a cleftThat’s cut so far to leave bereftOnce sodden banks, now dry, alone,High mountains, old so that the bonesOf rock stab through the dusty greyOf grass, and bleach themselves with day.

Skeleton moor, in winter cladSeems yet so proud and smiling, gladTo look so bleak when secrets lieOf life in grass, river, and sky.And men sense here they’re not aloneSo here they built a bridge of stone.